Hey kids! Your stories were so bright, wonderful, and luminescent that you caused our head judge to get so verklempt that she needed to excuse herself. Either that, or her internet is down and so, through my magical wizarding power, I will channel her for a judgement post...

You all did great, and weíre just so stinkiní proud of you!

Seriously, we donít even know where to begin. Oh letís just start at the very top; itís our most favorite place!

Dr. Kloctopussyís Luck Be a Lady told a wonderful story that unanimously collected the judges pick for the win! Congratulations, and may I just say, you have radiant hands.

Kaishaiís From Death spooked us all and made us clutch our hot cocoas quite close to our chests. What a nice story, with a powerful ending, and rumor has it; you bake delicious brownies.

Thranguyís Protean worried us. Are you OK Thranguy? Perhaps you should indulge in some of Kaishaiís brownies. We hear theyíre delicious. Regardless, though we may be concerned about you, we are not at all concerned about your writing. You truly are a triple threat. A powerful writer, a member of MENSA, and the only person ever to eat a Dennyís Grand Slam and keep it down. You are a hero.

Muffinís Inter was flashy, stylish, and accomplished a lot in a tiny space. Itís stories like this that support the pet theory that Muffin is an Ewok. Well done Muffin, you earned yourself some head scritchings and to one day be portrayed by Warwick Davis.

Capnfalconís Diamonds are a Wizard's Biggest Headache provided us all with a magnificent breath of fresh air. Though that may have just been Falconís natural appealing musk. Itís hard to tell, sometimes, whatís so appealing about a flash fiction writer. In this case, though, it may very well just have been a well-told story, with a humorous and consistent voice. If Falcon keeps writing stories like this, keeps up their card counting, and doesnít lose their spot as 2nd chair Bassoon for the Boston Pops, they may very well be in the running for most fascinating Thunderdomer.

Onto slightly less wonderful things:

OUR FARTHEST AWAY FROM WINNER

Phobiaís The Alter on the Mount, left some things to be desired. We respect the choices you made with your prose, but we donít think they helped your story. The prose made it difficult to navigate, and so we give you the greatest gift of all, the most space possible to improve. Weíve seen you do better, so go and do better. This story may be our loser for the week, but we look forward to more from you!

OUR SECOND FARTHEST AWAY FROM WINNER

Sokobanís The Apprentice was a messy endeavor that didnít seem to accomplish all that much. We are hopeful that, through detailed feedback and more time, we will one day see you at the top of this glorious enterprise, holding the baton as we all yell PROMPT at you. Come back, Sokoban, and show us what youíve got.

Sokobanís The Apprentice was a messy endeavor that didnít seem to accomplish all that much. We are hopeful that, through detailed feedback and more time, we will one day see you at the top of this glorious enterprise, holding the baton as we all yell PROMPT at you. Come back, Sokoban, and show us what youíve got.

They say good things come in pairs, which must be why I won Wizard Week twice! Yay! Or was it bad things that come in pairs? Well, if there's one thing we can all agree on, it's that some things come in pairs: twins, shoes, eyes. Bad Cats.

But what about cops and robbers? Cops and their Buddy Cop? Husbands and Wives? Mistresses and Wives?

Ups and Downs! Ins and Outs! Heavens and Hells! Winners and Losers! (that's some foreshadowing for you, fyi)

So, pick a pair of some sort. Two of a kind, opposites, vague parallels. It can be literal, it can be esoteric, it can be quite nearly anything you want, except a solo or a trio. And then! A story! Well, you knew it had to come sometime. Write a story that at the very least touches on the pair of things/people/places/ideas/etc. and how they relate to each other. What ties them together? How do they mirror each other? How does the reflection thrown back by one affect the other?

If you want to share your pair when you sign up, go for it, they are cool to see. If not, I will forgive you. Because you know what goes together? Transparency and dirty secrets.

DON'T post them in your story post, please.

Other than that, go hog Bad Cat wild, with the usual caveats: no fanfic, no erotica, no nonfiction. Poetry is allowed, though perhaps not recommended.

As ever, all entries will be judged nearly entirely on how much they are enjoyed. Definitely not by printing them out and putting them in front of some Bad Cats and seeing which ones they try to eat first. Definitely not.

But wait! There's more!

PRIZES!

Everyone likes getting prizes, and now you can get one just for signing up! (kind of)

People who will get an extra-special custom picture of a Bad Cat, holding a little placard with your username or whatever else you want on it (some limitations may apply). Or you can make some other request, maybe the Bad Cats will be a little less bad out of pity and/or respect and do it for you. Who knows what a cat even thinks.

The winner will get 5 minutes of bonafide cuddling with the Bad Cat of their choice! (transportation to and from Bad Cat Mansion not included.)

Cat pictures aren't flash rules, they are just prizes. You don't need to write about cats. Cats are not part of the prompt. They are just here to keep me company, so I feel a little less alone in the world.

In this 2 win this. And since it's my first time I'll too, show me those bad, bad cats.

Alright, I didn't have any big scary monsters hanging around, so I made this monster mask and put it on a stuffed cat. I thought maybe this would clean up Bad Cat 2's act, like one of those scared straight things, but I think maybe she has adopted it instead?

I tried like 50 times to get Bad Cat 1 to literally just stand in front of a mockup of your avatar, but even when I tried to lure her over with a piece of pizza she was all "gently caress this." Then she clawed the poo poo out of me. I know we joke about blood throne and stuff, but there's only so much actual blood I'm willing to shed here.

I'm not even sure which one of us this song is for, but in honor of this ordeal, you get:

Alright, I didn't have any big scary monsters hanging around, so I made this monster mask and put it on a stuffed cat. I thought maybe this would clean up Bad Cat 2's act, like one of those scared straight things, but I think maybe she has adopted it instead?

I take a dislike to the white robed healer almost as soon as he steps into my little store, ducking under the low lintel, out of the midmorning sun and into the cool, dim interior. He doesn't shake my welcoming hand, thus avoiding a dose from the dogroot-laced hand cream I keep in a convenient jar under the counter. When I guide him through into my cramped back room ó office and laboratory both ó and show him to the visitors' chair he says he prefers to stand, though he looks somewhat unsteady. The chair's deep padding hides tiny needles, so small and so sharp that you won't feel a thing as they go in, and will continue not to feel a thing for the next half hour as the sea snake venom paralyses your legs. I offer him a freshly baked dainty (sorrowfruit pulp blended into the cream), which he refuses, claiming a lack of appetite. I try to tempt him with some tea, which he also declines. There's nothing wrong with my tea; it's a refreshing, minty blend from my own herb garden and I'm rather proud of it.

None of these little japes can affect me, of course. You don't last long as a poisoner without developing a healthy immunity to the profession's more common agents. Some of my apprentices don't even last a week. In fact, it's thanks to just such an incautious youth, and my ensuing midnight walk in the forest with a shovel and much-stained rug, that I'm feeling so tired and out of sorts this morning. My hospitality doesn't cause any long term ills; it's rather poor business to kill your clients before taking their money. But poisoners aren't universally loved, and on those occasions when someone steps into my humble store with an eye for revenge, rather than great service at a reasonable rate, it helps to have a subtle something to give me the edge. Then I give them an edge too, and once the blood is cleaned up it's just a matter of waiting 'til night to take my shovel for another stroll through the woods.

I sit behind my desk, cluttered with yellowing papers, pour myself a nice, hot cup of tea, and take a pastry. Then I ask the healer how I can be of service. The pleasant, musky, purple scent of incense flows from an ornate brass censer hanging from the low ceiling. I'll just have to hope that its mildly sedative smoke will be enough of an advantage should this turn sour. The healer explains his problem and I like him even less ó he doesn't even really want what I'm selling. He's looking for a cure. I thought he looked a little peaky.

Now I've nothing against healers, they have their job to do just like I have mine, and those jobs are more similar than you might think. The successful poisoner is just as much a student of the human body, its functions and failings, as any conscientious physician, and my practice no less a science than theirs. But curing people isn't what I do; it's just not my passion. Admittedly, for almost every poison there is a cure, and I'd say I know more of them than most. I keep a small stock for those embarrassing moments when a client switches the goblets one time too many, or nicks themselves practicing flourishes with a tainted blade. Sometimes they even make it back to me in time to take advantage of my customer loyalty scheme.

To apply the right cure though, that can be tricky. I need to know exactly what poison was used; the wrong cure is deadly in itself. So many clients ask me for the same type of poison: odourless, colourless, tasteless, fast-acting and incurable. I can do it, I tell them, but it's going to cost you. The ingredients for a poison like that are rare and hard to get: seaweed growing only in far off, frozen fjords, dainty purple flowers blooming under the midnight sun, the gallbladder of an especially vicious and cunning species of weasel. And they're a pain to work with: more than one master poisoner has come to an extremely nasty end working up a batch of one of the Great Poisons. Better to use something less exotic, less expensive, and less dangerous to my health. Add a bit of pepper to your husband's steak and he won't notice the bitter, spicy taste of lover's wort. Pour the tincture into wine rather than beer and its deep ruby colour won't show. And if your victim doesn't know what he's been dosed with, what does it matter if there's a cure? Most people wise up and settle on a lesser toxin, easier on the purse and on my nerves. They appreciate that I don't try to upsell them. It's that kind of trusted service that keeps my clients coming back again and again.

I ask the healer his symptoms. Headache, nausea, blurred vision. That's me every morning before my first cuppa, friend. Vomiting, diarrhoea, stomach cramps. So generic it could be anything, and I'm glad he didn't sit down now. Fever, shivering, sweating, a sense of impending doom. Sounds like he's been poisoned all right. That or the inn's beer last night was a bit staler than usual, the end-of-night special stew a week or two past its best. Flaky, grey spots on his chest and legs, blackening of the genitals. Ah, now we're getting somewhere. No, I don't need to see the afflicted genitals. In fact, now we're getting I know exactly where.

The signs of wraithblight poisoning are unmistakeable. By remarkable coincidence, I happened to sell a good sized dose of the stuff to a very pleasant young lady just yesterday, shortly before my apprentice quietly helped himself to one of my personal cigarettes and found out why nine out of ten reputable healers recommend against smoking nightweed. This particular healer seems to be still in the poison's early stages ó no delirium or loss of body parts yet ó meaning he was probably poisoned this morning. I'm the only poisoner in town (there was another, but she fell mysteriously ill), so it's no doubt my wraithblight contaminating his blood and causing it to leak from where blood ought certainly not leak. Unfortunately for the poor man, the lady last night was one of those picky clients, insistent the poison I sold her be deadly (of course), impossible to detect, and above all lacking an antidote. She didn't specify that the method of death need be especially horrible; I threw that in for free. You have to be able to amuse yourself in this job; if you aren't doing what you love then what's it all for? And now the result of my craft is standing here in my shop, violently shivering, gently swaying, and very likely about to add yet more stains to my second grimiest rug.

I explain to the healer that today is not his lucky day. He takes it remarkably calmly ó the drifting smoke of my incense doing its work. He mostly keeps his composure as I lay out for him his next and final few hours. If he gets a little queasy as I detail the increasingly gruesome effects of the poison irreversibly destroying his body it's quite understandable and, I assure him, nothing ten minutes scrubbing with a bucket of soapy water won't fix. He's looking really quite ill now, and doesn't resist as I help him into my other chair: hard, straight-backed and needle free. I don't think I need to worry about being attacked at this point.

"There's really nothing you can do for me?" he whispers. "Please. The pain is so strong."

That's when, in a moment of remarkable insight, I realise: there may be a sale here after all. Soon enough I've brewed up a little potion of green yomberries: strong smelling, dark, and foul tasting, but then that's hardly important to this client. What matters to him is that it brings a death quick and painless; I've heard it's even quite pleasant. At any rate, the healer dies with a look of relief on his face. Call me a soft touch, but I gave him a discount on this one.

As I strip him of his robes of office I look at the white fabric, now badly soiled. Perhaps my work and the healer's are more alike even than I thought. On a whim I try on his loose cloak, adjust the cowl over my head and fasten the intricately worked pin at my neck, then admire myself in the tarnished silver mirror standing in a dusty corner of my lab. Certainly not a healer, but maybe more than just a poisoner? Poison, and the cure. This really could open up a whole new market for me, an exciting opportunity for business diversification. Something to think about while I take my shovel for its evening walk.